


Cross-Purposes

by AdelaCathcart



Series: Request Fics [4]
Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: A Little Lowkey Bondage, Enemy Lovers, F/M, Hurt/Indifference, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:07:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27739660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelaCathcart/pseuds/AdelaCathcart
Summary: “What’s this? I was expecting Ogunwe.”“King Ogunwe is still supervising the return of No. 2 Squadron, sir. We were given orders to bring the prisoner directly to you for questioning.”“To me? Why?”“My lord—” the man started to say, but as he did the huddled woman twisted, and her tear-streaked face caught the light.It was the same expression of hypocritical agony she’d worn when last he saw her.[A missing scene fromThe Amber Spyglass.]
Relationships: Lord Asriel/Marisa Coulter
Series: Request Fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2029141
Comments: 3
Kudos: 38





	Cross-Purposes

The man operating the lodestone resonator never mentioned her name. Or maybe he had, and Lord Asriel hadn’t been listening—once he learned the mission to collect the children had proved a failure, he turned his attention at once to formulating a new plan for their recovery, and the details that came after didn’t interest him. And so late the following morning, when two young soldiers let themselves into the adamant tower’s conference room with a twitching figure laid on a stretcher between them, he was momentarily mystified.

“What’s this? I was expecting Ogunwe.”

“King Ogunwe is still supervising the return of No. 2 Squadron, sir. We were given orders to bring the prisoner directly to you for questioning.”

“To me? Why?”

“My lord—” the man started to say, but as he did the huddled form twisted, and her tear-streaked face caught the light.

It was the same expression of hypocritical agony she’d worn when last he saw her.

Her teeth were clenched against a sob, and at the sound of his voice her monkey dæmon lifted his head weakly, fangs bared in an effortful hiss. Lord Asriel took no notice but gingerly pried apart the woman’s eyelid. Her pupil was dilated, and her breathing shallow: she was in monstrous pain. Her gaze slid across his face lazily, seeming not to recognize him.

“Who is she, sir, if I may ask? We weren’t told, but Petyr and I thought maybe she was your—I mean, the—“

“The girl’s mother, yes. Well, she’s in no state to be questioned now. Gallivespian venom, I assume?”

“Yes, sir. She had a run-in with the Chevalier Tialys not long before her capture. A minor scratch, according to his report—it should begin to wear off in another hour or so.”

“I see. Put her in there for the time being,” Lord Asriel commanded, indicating his private chamber with a nod. “And shut the door, if you would. What we do with her once she comes around will depend on how cooperative she chooses to be.”

As they carried her away, the movement seemed to disturb her: she tried to speak. Her voice was faint and ragged. She was asking for her daughter. The words were cut short by the clink of the latch as it caught.

Lord Asriel returned to his work, reviewing the first interviews he had collected from Xaphania and her companions about their recollections of the Clouded Mountain, and comparing them with his notes on the testimony of the angel spy, Baruch. The angel had died to deliver his information. His death would not be in vain: every life lost for the sake of the Republic would help to buy the liberty of millions. And he had been in dire need of more recent intelligence about the enemy. It might even be possible to extrapolate more subtle developments in the structure of the Kingdom, things not referenced directly in any report, by carefully cross-referencing data already in his possession.

Or it would have been, if she hadn’t started pounding on the door. “It’s unlocked, Marisa,” he said calmly, without turning.

He heard the cautious lifting of the handle, her struggling breath, the wheeze of the opening hinges. Her step, unmistakable, even in infirmity.

The hammer-click of her pistol.

Quick as thought, he swatted for the source of the sound, and she sobbed as he twisted her wrist behind her. The gun hit the floor with a deafening crack. With his fist firm in her dirty hair he slammed her face-first into the conference table.

“What in Hell do you think you’re doing!?” he shouted over the ringing in his ears. Stelmaria pounced on the monkey dæmon eagerly, and held him pinned under her broad paws like a Cathay lion-dog with its cub. Mrs. Coulter was openly weeping now; he could feel gasps racking her body under his, but felt no pity: to pity her would be to underestimate her. He cast about for something he could bind her with.

“My daughter! Bring her—What have you _done_ —“ She began to cough as he leaned hard into the arm that held her, freeing one of his hands to loosen his tie. He cinched her wrists-to-elbows in a simple lark’s-head hitch, then used this to yank her backwards into a chair, and lashed her to its thick mid-rail. She was still weak; that would hold her for now.

After that he sent for an orderly, one with a dexterous raccoon dæmon who could bind the monkey properly, using alloy chains the fortress smiths had cleverly devised for that purpose. Lord Asriel’s commanders would be with him soon to discuss the battle at the cave and its aftermath. He simply had no time to waste playing games with this woman or her child. She was complaining bitterly, still choked with tears, thrashing so that the legs of her chair banged on the stone floor, but he was only vaguely aware of this. He was on hands and knees searching for the dropped pistol.

It had skidded underneath the map chest, and he fished it out with charcoal-tongs borrowed from the rack by the brazier before picking it up cautiously and engaging the safety switch. It was Swiss Guard issue, double-action, with a lightweight aluminum frame, and it felt unexpectedly familiar in his hand. With disgust, he realized he’d used it before: it had belonged to Edward Coulter.

Hastily, Lord Asriel unloaded the pistol and stuffed it back into her battered knapsack, which lay spilled open underneath his bed. The contents of the bag smelled of woodsmoke and stale incense, of cedar and fir, but most of all her sweat and the fresh creamy resin of her skin. There was another scent too, which he didn’t recognize, because it was the scent of Lyra. Something in his chest was ringing like a distant bell. He felt unaccountably angry.

Under the conference table, the monkey writhed furiously in Stelmaria’s grip. She was many times his size, but he was spiteful and unpredictable, and she was impeded: she didn't want to seriously injure him. Given the chance he would spare her no such courtesy. He twisted, teeth snapping, but couldn’t turn his head quite far enough to bite her. With her claws in his back, the leopard shoved with all her weight, and crushed the little dæmon into the floor.

Bound to the chair, and for the moment all but forgotten, Mrs. Coulter cried out, from pain or from rage or from something else entirely.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to a request from an anonymous tumblr user: "i’ve always wondered about the time marisa was at the adamant tower after being poisoned by the gallivespian spies."
> 
> Shoutout to @nonlegend, who educated me about firearm safety (and unsafety) for this fic.


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